Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho
by the morrighan
Summary: One more Vegas story. This one is an Old West romp with an Atlantis twist!  Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho

**October 1885**

The stagecoach veered to one side, threatening to tip over and dump its passengers and baggage onto the dusty street, but at the last second the wheels righted themselves and the horses came to a stop. The wind whistled angrily around the vehicle, rocking it as if still trying to upend it. The door was flung open and the passengers exited as their bags were unceremoniously dumped alongside them.

"Wait! Wait! This is outrageous! That's it? I wish to formally register a complaint not only with you personally but with the company that runs this so-called express service out of Salt Lake! Do you hear me? I will not tolerate this kind of unprofessional behavior! I will not—"

The stagecoach veered again as it suddenly jumped with a burst of speed as the horses pulling it began to gallop down the road, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

"Wait! Wait, you just can't run off like that willy-nilly! I want no I demand a full refund of my fare for this ridiculous lack of service and civility! What's more I demand to see the law in town to formally report the theft of my—" A coughing fit took the rest of his words and the man doubled over, clutching at his bag as the dust infused his lungs and momentarily took his tirade.

Only momentarily however. Doctor Rodney McKay could never be silenced for long.

"Mr. McKay? Mr. McKay, is that you?"

The woman's voice was sounding behind him. Rodney turned, straightening. The dust was collapsing back onto the dirt road. The sidewalk of slat boards was coated with it and offered little in the way of cleanliness. Nevertheless Rodney stepped upon it, if only to be out of the muck of the road itself. He watched a woman approaching quickly, black skirts clutched in both hands, a black bonnet askew on her head. He cleared his throat, tried to pat off the dust clinging to his suit. He did remember to remove his hat as she reached him. "Yes, I am Doctor McKay. Doctor," he repeated, as if she would forget it. "Do I know you, ma'am? Ah! You must be Mrs. Sumner, my correspondent." He smiled.

The woman smiled, reaching him. She tucked a stray brown strand of hair back into her wayward bonnet. "Yes. I am Mrs. Sumner, Mr, oh sorry! Doctor McKay. I am the one with whom you have been corresponding this past month. I am sorry I was late for your arrival. Are you all right?"

Rodney studied the woman in front of him. The black clothes denoting widow weeds, although she was only a little younger than he was. Her brown eyes were striking, solemn and concerned, the only beauty in an otherwise plain but pleasant face. "No, madam, in very fact I am not all right! We were robbed on our journey to this…place." He had wanted to say town, but the word seemed to be too grand for what was basically a way-stop for the stagecoaches and other travelers passing through on their way to California.

"Robbed, did you say? Are you all right, Mr, er Doctor McKay?"

"No, I am not…oh." He gentled his tone, seeing her concern. "I am fine. No physical harm came to me, but I do mourn the loss of my watch and my wallet. Luckily the ruffians had no interest in my scientific equipment." He lifted the case he held for emphasis then lowered it. "Now, if you would be so kind as to direct me to the law I will lodge a formal complaint and then seek lodgings in this—"

"This way." Moira Sumner began to lead him down the street.

"Excuse me? Is that not the sheriff's office?" Rodney was pointing across the street, but Moira was walking past the building he indicated.

"Yes, but he won't be there. He rarely is," she said. The derision in her tone was audible and obvious as she led Rodney down towards a saloon.

Rodney sighed, restored his hat to his head and followed after her. "I hate the frontier," he muttered.

The saloon was dark, dank, quiet and relatively uninhabited. In other words it was the perfect place to be for Sheriff John Sheppard. He slouched in a chair at the table, long legs propped up on another chair across from him. His hat was tipped low, shielding his face from view. His arms were folded across his chest, only adding more wrinkles to his brown shirt and vest. His long black duster trailed along the chair and to the wooden floor. A pair of dark pants were haphazardly tucked into his well-worn boots where silver spurs caught the flash of sunlight and glinted as the doors to the saloon were pushed wide open.

John scowled, resenting the intrusion. He reached out one hand to grab the glass in front of him and he drank the whiskey. It burned its way along his mouth, down his throat to his stomach. He licked his lips, set the glass back onto the table where it clinked against the half-empty bottle. The amber brown liquid gleamed briefly in the flare of sunlight then was doused as the saloon doors swung closed once more. Sunlight and shadow striped the floor. Striped the gun belt slung low on his hips and the Colt holstered here at his thigh.

He heard footsteps. Unfamiliar shoes, not boots, and the familiar quiet steps of a woman. The rustle of skirts near his legs confirmed his observations. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the dour black color of her clothing and knew who it was without having to raise his head. He waited, not moving, not acknowledging her or the stranger beside her. A smirk was forming on his lips as he deliberately irritated her.

Moira scowled, knowing full well he was very aware of being observed. "Sheriff Sheppard? If you have a moment there's been a robbery."

John slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze. He tilted back his hat to reveal his handsome, scruffy face. His bright green eyes held a mixture of emotions and his perfect lips were forming a half-smile. "Ma'am." He briefly inclined his head. Then suddenly he straightened in the chair, eying her companion with suspicion and curiosity. He was a greenhorn, a city slicker dressed in a three-piece navy and white suit, black shiny shoes and a ridiculous Bowler hat that John had the urge to shoot on sight. "A robbery, you say?"

"Yes!" Rodney stepped forward, thrusting out his hand in greeting. "Sheriff, the stagecoach was robbed just a few miles out of town on our way here! What's more, the ruffians were rude and the stagecoach driver himself is culpable in some way, I just know it! I am Doctor McKay, a renowned scientist who is here to fix your electrical telegraph among other things." He waited, waited until finally dropping his hand to his side. Puzzled.

John looked at Moira again, then back at Rodney. "I never heard of ya."

"I'm not surprised, being out here in the middle of nowhere and devoid of any scientific periodicals much less a public library or a…are you going to do something about the robbery? My watch and my wallet were stolen from me, at gunpoint, no less!"

"I'll look into it," John drawled.

"You'll look…you'll look…" Rodney began, anger blustering to the surface.

Moira touched his arm briefly. "Don't upset yourself, Doctor McKay. Things run much slower out here, I'm afraid, but the sheriff will look into it eventually. If he can ever get his behind off that chair and out of the saloon, that is. I think we would have better luck with the deputy. Now, let's get you to the hotel where you can recover and have a fine meal, all right?" She glared at the sheriff, turned and headed for the saloon doors.

"Excuse me, Sheriff…Sheppard, was it? I think you should attend to this crime with all alacrity! A group of criminals are on the prowl and will more than likely inflict their grievous demands on this town next! I assume you have a bank in this town? Or a store, at least, that will attract the likes of said criminals. Your citizens need to be protected! I have to say that Mrs. Sumner's opinion of you makes me concerned about your efficacy at enforcing the law."

John was amused. But he glowered and stood abruptly. He towered over the stranger by a few inches, but they seemed more imposing as his boots clomped on the wooden floor as he stepped round the table to see the case the man held onto tightly. "A scientist, huh? Well, Mr. McKay-"

"That's Doctor McKay," Rodney corrected in a small voice.

John ignored him. "I think you'd best be gettin' to that hotel and be about your business here in town. That way I can do mine."

"Fine." Rodney glanced at the saloon doors. Moira was standing there, waiting, her gaze locked on John. Her glare was pure ire. Rodney looked at John. He was looking at Moira, expression unreadable. "Um, she doesn't seem to like you very much, sheriff."

John met his gaze. "Yeah, you could say that."

"May I ask the reason why?"

"It's simple. I killed her husband."


	2. Chapter 2

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho2

**May 1885**

It was a one-room schoolhouse, situated at the end of town, away from the dust of the road and the nefarious businesses that lined it. There were wooden steps leading up to it, and a little garden of flowers that were sheltered from the hot sun on the west side of the building. It was a dull red color, but clean and airy and lined with windows. It was quiet and calm and safe.

It was the perfect place for Moira Sumner to be.

There weren't many students but those that were in attendance were mostly good and eager to learn. On these busy late May afternoons class ended early so the children could return to their farms to help with the planting and milking and sundry other chores. Moira was cleaning up the desks, returning fallen slates to their places. She wiped down the chalkboard, slow strokes as she erased the day's lesson, eradicating all evidence of it from the board.

Hearing a noise she whirled, eraser in hand. She stared. The sheriff was standing in the doorway, lounging really as his long, lean form blocked all of the sunlight. His hat was tilted back from his handsome face and one ankle was crossed in front of the other. "Sheriff? Is there something you require?"

John smiled. He had been watching her clean the board. The motions of her body under the lightweight summer frock she wore, a soft gray linen that shifted as her body moved, as her arm lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped. The bustle was modest and concealed her rear from him, but the skirt lifted to give him a glimpse of her ankles above her sensible shoes. As she turned to him he admired the front of the dress, the lace bodice that had a hint of color in it and hugged her curves for him to speculate about as she turned slightly. He licked his lips. Doffed his hat and held it as he sauntered towards her.

His boots made a clomping sound with each step he took. The spurs jingled softly. His duster flapped open, revealing his low-slung gun belt and the gun holstered there. The snug pants leaving little to the imagination, the shirt even less as it was carelessly tucked in and a few buttons were open at his chest, revealing a glimpse of dark, coarse hair. The shirt was olive, thin and revealing every muscle as he moved his arms as he walked. His dark brown hair was wild, disordered by the hat and a cowlick was sticking up behind one ear. His handsome face was lined with stubble. "Ma'am. A word."

Moira pried her gaze off him and stepped to the desk, keeping it between them like a barrier. She touched a book sitting there, then a long bone that was beige with age. She ran her fingers lightly along it, hearing his boots as they neared, neared, then the silence as he stopped. "About?" she asked, meeting his gaze again.

John was watching the sunlight as it slanted through the windows and fell upon her brown hair, revealing tints of red. For once she was devoid of a bonnet. A few strands of hair were falling loose from the bun behind her head, curling across her rosy cheek and along her throat until the dress's high collar intervened. "I hear tell you've been teaching some radical new theory."

"Oh. Yes."

"Yes?" John raised a brow at her simple answer.

"Yes. How is that the business of the sheriff?" she asked, fingers stilling on the bone.

John had been watching her stroking the fossil. He had been allured by the motion of her fingers along the length of it. He met her gaze, stepping closer and touched the bone. It was smooth under his fingers. Warm. Hard. "It's not, but I've had a few complaints. About this evolving theory."

She smiled. "The theory of evolution. Yes. Mr. Charles Darwin has posited a very convincing argument which he put forth in a book which I am using to elucidate the theory. And the discovery of this on the farm."

"The bone." He glanced down at it.

"Yes, Mr. Sheppard. I've consulted several books devoted to the science of paleontology and I have shown this to Doctor Beckett and our consensus is that this is a leg bone, more specifically the femur of a now extinct animal that once roamed the earth millions of years ago. Yes, millions of years," she insisted, although he offered no objection, "for the world is far older than we ever believed, Mr. Sheppard. We have the proof in geology and the new sciences. And this leg bone once belonged to an extinct order of animals the paleontologists are calling dinosaurs. Terrible lizards, huge reptiles that once roamed the land we are standing on right now. Right now! The ancestors, if you will of the more familiar and smaller lizards that we encounter today in the desert. Furthermore I have discovered other fossils belonging to equally strange and equally ancient species, including a most curious skull that is unlike anything I have ever seen, even in the most prestigious periodicals and I…oh. Forgive me, Mr. Sheppard. I'm sure you have no interest in these things."

John trailed his fingers up the length of the bone towards her fingers. He met her gaze, smiled. He tilted his head in a flirtatious manner as he had become enchanted by her words and her enthusiasm. He had been thoroughly enchanted by the slight Irish lilt in her voice as her words became animated. Her brown eyes were shining, intoxicating as was her passion for the subject matter. "As a matter of fact, Mrs. Sumner, I find you quite exciting."

She smiled. "You mean you find the subject quite exciting, sheriff," she corrected, but he stepped even closer. His fingers slid over hers now. His calloused touch was warm, bold, rough all at once.

"No. I meant what I said, ma'am," he drawled, and Moira was caught in silence, trapped in the brilliance of his green eyes, his handsome face, his perfect lips forming a charming smile. He was simply the most handsome man she had ever seen, and she couldn't stop staring.

Suddenly she gasped. A soft sound as her gaze darted to the doorway of the schoolroom. John could guess the reason for her reaction. His fingers tightened on hers briefly as he turned to view Marshall Sumner lurking in the doorway like a harbinger of doom. He was a dour man, with a serious mustache and short hair. He was dressed in a suit, dark and a little tattered but nevertheless imposing. A gold pocket watch hung from his vest pocket and swung in time to his steps as he approached.

"Sheriff Sheppard? May I ask what business you have in a schoolroom?" he rasped.

John inclined his head politely, restoring his hat. "I had business with the schoolmarm, actually, Mr. Sumner. And now that is concluded."

"You had business with my wife? What was the reason, sir?" Suspicion darted in his eyes as he neared and glanced at the desk. "Ah…" Marshall stepped closer and saw the bone. "I told you not to preach that outlandish new theory!"

Moira replied calmly, "It is not an outlandish theory but part of the new science of—"

"I don't care!" He slammed his hand on the desk for emphasis. "Get home, now and get supper started! I'll be along presently."

Moira visibly gulped. She nodded, grabbed the bone and some books and scurried past the two men, head down, shoulders hunched. She quickly exited the schoolroom.

John's gaze narrowed dangerously. The contrast between only a few moments ago could not have been more marked. The formerly vivacious woman reduced to cowering obedience. It took an effort to unclench his hands as they were forming fists. He eyed the older man as a casual motion of his hand revealed the gun at his hip and the gold badge on his vest. "I don't take kindly to any man raising his hand to a woman."

Marshall met his gaze, glowering. "And I don't take kindly to any man interfering in business clearly not his own. I'll make certain she stops teaching this new radical theory."

"There's no need for that," John countered. "I just needed to be sure that the—"

"I said I will take care of it, as is my right and my business, sheriff."

"Fine." John's fingers played lightly along the hilt of his gun. "Jes don't be putting a hand to her, or I will make it my business."

"How I choose to discipline my wife is my business, not the law's. This subject is closed. There will be no more trouble from this quarter. I apologize for her forward behavior. Sheriff."

John glared, watching the older man depart. He caught hold of his gun, freed it. He glanced back at the desk as if a shadow of the flirtation remained. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help himself. Not really, as he knew that the Sumner marriage wasn't based on love. Not at all. He strode out of the schoolroom, needing a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho3

It was a quiet evening. The wind was whistling around the buildings, raising dust clouds on the street and tossing tumbleweeds around like toys but it was warm in the hotel's restaurant. Rodney smiled, sighed and sat back with a fastidious wiping of his mouth with a napkin. The food was actually passable, surprising him. He had a decent room on the second floor, and after cleaning up from his stagecoach journey he felt better. He looked round at the few other diners engaged in conversation.

"Mr. McKay? Excuse me. I just wanted to introduce myself. I am Doctor Carson Beckett."

Rodney nearly jumped at the Scottish voice. He looked over to see a rather dapper man clad in a brown suit. He had short brown hair, a line of scruff on his jaw and blue eyes that although friendly were assessing him. Rodney moved to his feet, shook the proffered hand. "It's Doctor McKay, actually."

"Och! Another physician?"

"No, not that kind of doctor. Excuse me, sir, do I know you?"

"No. We have a mutual acquaintance. Mrs. Sumner."

"Ah. Please." The two men sat at the table. "Oh! You must be the Doctor Beckett she mentioned in her correspondence."

"Yes, that would be me. I hear you had a rather unpleasant journey to our little town."

"Unpleasant? Terrible! I will be so glad when the railroad finally makes it through here as I am sure you all must be!"

"I would advise you to lower your voice," Carson urged, amused at the man's sanguinary exclamations. "That's a rather sore subject around here."

"Really? Why? The railroad represents progress! Civilization! Why, instead of being just a way station on the Old Spanish Trail you could actually become a real town! A city even, with the advance of the railroad and all of the advantages that would bring!" Rodney frowned, noticing a few glares directed towards him at his words.

"Still, for the farmers around these parts it is a problem. Best to leave it, eh? The telegraph is set up in the post office, and once you have finished there I will escort you to the other thing."

"I know where it is! I have the necessary equipment to fix it! Did I mention I was robbed? Robbed at gunpoint by some most scurrilous ruffians! And apparently your local sheriff has no interest in pursuing the criminals and recovering my losses!"

Carson smiled. "He will, in his own way."

"I was told I might have better luck with the deputy. I wish to see him tomorrow, first thing."

"All right."

"And as for the other thing…" Rodney lowered his voice, "the less who know the better. I had the strangest feeling I was being followed out here. I kept seeing the same man at both train stations, but he was not on the stagecoach."

"He was probably a fellow traveler, that's all," Carson soothed, shaking his head at the stranger's eccentricity. He wondered at Moira's insistence that this man was the one who could help them with what they had found.

"No! I believe he was following me. I cannot explain it, but he kept looking at my case with undue interest. And I assure you that I am well known in most scientific circles, at least back East. At least in Chicago. At least in my university," he was forced to temporize. He grabbed a glass of water and drank quickly to cover his embarrassment.

Carson smiled indulgently, sighing. "You can mention that to the deputy as well, then, Mr. McKay, in the morning after you have recovered fully from your journey."

"Doctor McKay, and yes, Doctor Beckett, I think I shall."

xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx xXx

There was a knock at the door. Moira whirled. Her black skirts swished noisily as the wind soughed around the house as if it too was in mourning. She moved to the door, opened it cautiously. A rifle was in reach, just in case. The house was miles from town, isolated. It was a tiny oasis of civility amidst acres of land, its only companion building being an old barn. The house was swathed in darkness except for the cheering kerosene lamps that threw long shadows onto the walls.

She smiled as a long, lean form filled the doorframe, blocking the orange sunset behind him and throwing his features into shadow. But she recognized him nonetheless. "Sheriff Sheppard."

"Ma'am." He inclined his head, tapped the brim of his hat. One thumb was hooked into the gun belt slung low on his hips. "May I?"

"Of course." She stepped aside. He entered the house, almost swaggering now like he owned it. Or at least was welcomed with open arms although it was another man's house. Although another man's wife, well, widow now was inviting him. He felt no guilt at the invitation, or that her current status was entirely due to him. He stood a moment, looking around the now familiar furnishings.

Moira shut the door, locked it. The wind soughed against it, pushing but could not gain entrance. She turned to view him, hands clasped together in front of her. "Did you-"

"Yes. Jumper's in the barn, bedded down for the night. I intend to do the same."

"You intend to be brushed and fed some barley oats?" she teased, turning to him.

John grinned. He tossed his hat onto the peg on the wall where it spun, landed. "In a manner of speakin' yeah. Come here, woman."

"John!" Moira laughed as she was pulled into his arms. Her laughter was doused by kiss after kiss as John took full possession of her mouth, her body as he guided her backwards, backwards to the wall where he gently pushed her. He pressed his body to hers, still kissing her repeatedly as his hands wandered along her, seeking her curves under the layers of clothing separating them.

Moira caught hold of his gun belt and undid it then his pants as John's mouth freed hers to wander across her cheek, her throat. His hands slid up to free her hair, to set the brown tresses spilling around them. She murmured, whimpered as his hands were sliding now to unbutton the bodice of her dress, fingers clumsy and impatient. Her fingers encountered the hardness of his gun, then another hardness that made him moan in response, reply. "John…John…"

"You best stop that or I won't have any left for ya," he teased as her fingers captured and caressed. Squeezed and tugged.

She squirmed as he grabbed her skirts and shoved her body along his, hands squeezing her rear to make her squeal and yelp. He chuckled, a low, masculine sound that slithered along her skin. She freed him only to shove him away from her. "John!" She was flustered, desirous and itching to get as close to him as possible. "Are you sure you weren't seen?"

"I'm sure." His gaze raked over her. "Let's get to this, Moira, before I have to fuck myself."

"John Sheppard!" She took his hand, led him round the room as she doused the kerosene lamps one by one. "Have you found those criminals yet? The ones who robbed poor Mr. McKay?"

"Not yet. I got an idea where they are holed up, though. I've got more pressing business first, Moira Sumner. Like pressing an Irish rose to my—"

"John!" She laughed, led him into the bedroom. She paused, freeing his hand to turn to him. To gaze upon him as he stood, waiting. Impatient. Lustful. He licked his lips. She touched his chest. An almost shy gesture after the passion only seconds earlier. "John, we have to be careful, you know. We have to be cautious…it is still too soon for—"

"I know, I know. Don't worry, sweetheart. Now…" He drew her to his arms again and kissed her. A slow, savoring kiss that made her melt into him. "Let's just see if this cowboy can tame this wild, wild filly, huh?"

Her laugh was all the assent he needed.


	4. Chapter 4

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho4

Moira was busily inscribing notes in a book as she decided what next week's lesson should be. She turned pages, frowning, trying to concentrate now that the schoolroom was empty. It was a lovely spring afternoon and having taken pity on the children she had let them leave an hour early to enjoy some precious free time before chores took over the rest of their day.

As no doubt the gossip would.

Moira knew it couldn't be avoided. She had considered wearing a veil, a hat, or leaving her hair somewhat loose, scandalous as that would be, but in the end she realized that no matter what people would see, would stare and speculate. So she tried to keep her head down, tried to ignore the stares in the general store, the stares of the children, and kept busy working as the story of her appearance inevitably made the rounds of the town.

She froze, hearing a sound. The distinctive noise of footsteps was heading her way. The clomp of boots and the jingling of spurs were loud. Clomp. Jingle. Clomp. Jingle. She knew exactly who was approaching her, and she sighed at the inevitability of this as well. She continued to work in a vain hope that by ignoring him he would simply leave. But of course he wouldn't.

"Moira."

She started, nearly scrawling on the page with her quill, for he hardly ever used her first name. She swallowed, eyes still on the page. "Sheriff Sheppard, you have no business here. I have lessons to plan. Please go."

"Word gets round. I had to see for myself." John stopped in front of the desk. He was staring unabashedly at Moira. Staring at the left side of her face that was purple with bruises and slightly swollen. A cut marred the corner of her mouth, a crimson line along her rosy lips. Bruises extended up her cheekbone, up to her ear before her hair concealed the rest. She was sitting stiffly, seeming to favor her left side and John could only imagine the bruising under her plain calico dress.

"Well, you've seen. Please go."

He remained. Still staring, appalled at her injuries, at what she had endured. He knew he was the cause. He knew it had nothing to do with any teaching of any radical evolution theory and everything to do with him. He realized too late he shouldn't have warned her husband off her. He placed his hands on the desk, palms downwards on the page she was reading. "I won't tolerate this, Moira. I won't." He straightened, turned to go.

"John, no!" She moved to her feet, anxious.

He turned back to her, strolled around the desk to stand near her. His gaze met hers. Moira could only stare at the solemnity in his green eyes, the concern, the anger a living thing that seemed to flex in every muscle of his long, lean body. "Moira." He lifted his hand. She flinched. He scowled, and gently, so gently touched her bruised and battered face. One finger trailing along her cheek, her jaw. Running along her lips. "I won't tolerate this."

"John, no, please!" she exclaimed, catching his arm as he turned to leave. "You can't! If you arrest him it will make things worse and when he gets out of jail he may do worse!"

Her words halted him. He met her gaze but she looked at her hand still clasping his arm. Her fingers clutching at the blue shirt he wore, at the solid muscles beneath the fabric. Feeling his strength as she had felt his gentle touch only seconds earlier. "Has he? Done worse?"

The silence was absolute. A small breeze fluttered the yellow curtains on the windows. Fluttered the flowers set on the desk, a pretty bouquet of daisies and black-eyed Susans and violets. A single rose was drooping, drooping, a splash of red amid the pastel colors.

Moira knew what he was asking. Exactly what he was asking. She felt a blush on her cheeks. She met his gaze, almost defiant. "No. Not yet." Tears filled her brown eyes but she blinked them away, refusing to allow them. She freed his arm.

John's gaze intensified. He touched her shoulder. "He never will." His voice was low, quiet, and Moira almost had to strain to hear him as close as he was. He turned, and strode purposefully out of the schoolroom.

"John? John, John, no, please, John!" she called, realizing too late she had just made things worse, much worse. She ran after him but froze, hovering on the threshold of the schoolroom. She watched him striding towards town, his black duster flapping out to either side of him. She clutched the doorframe, unable to move. "John, please!"

John stopped. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, tilted slightly as her side was paining her. "You stay right there, Moira. I'll make this right."

Moira opened her mouth to speak, to protest but no words came. She could only watch as John tipped his hat to her, turned and strode towards town.

Now that John was away from Moira he could give vent to his fury. He could let it loose and not hide his anger and utter contempt for the man who had so viciously beaten a woman, beaten his wife, beaten the woman that John was sweet on if truth be told. He knew where to find the bastard. Mr. Sumner would be where he always was, in his bank making everyone else's lives miserable. That was what he did for a living.

"Sumner!" John's voice carried over the breeze as he stood in the middle of the road. He shoved back his duster, revealing the gun at his hip, the badge at his chest. "Sumner! I'm calling you out, you sonuvabitch!"

People scattered, startled and nervous by the sheriff's tone. Carson Beckett stepped out of his office and stood at the railing of the sidewalk, arms crossed over his chest. John glanced round and saw Deputy Lorne was on the other side of the road, watching. Not intervening but ready just in case he was needed. A few other gawkers lingered.

"Sumner! Get out here now or I will start shootin' up your precious bank!"

Finally Marshall emerged, appearing more irritated than anything else. Nevertheless he was wearing a gun and he strolled down the sidewalk to enter the street. "Sheriff? I warned you to stay out of my business."

"And I warned you to never raise a hand to a woman."

"Even if that woman in question is my wife? I saw. I saw how she was looking at you. I won't tolerate such brazen behavior. She is the schoolmarm, not one of the town's slatterns."

John glowered, his gaze narrowing. He flexed his fingers at his sides, wanting nothing more than to pummel the bastard in front of him. Instead he replied, "It's none of her doing. None of this. I'll give you a choice, Sumner. You come along peacefully now and I will arrest you in front of these fine citizens and throw you in jail so you can cool off a spell."

"I haven't broken any laws, Sheppard," Sumner retorted, glaring in return. He flexed his fingers near his own gun. "I am perfectly composed. In fact I plan to enjoy a fine freshly cooked stew this evening in my home, and afterwards I might just indulge in some further disciplinary actions that may finally engender a child. At the very least it will teach that woman her place." He smiled, seeing John's fury. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it, is there, Sheppard?"

John tensed, his gut twisting as Sumner was absolutely right. Legally there wasn't a damn thing he could do.

Marshall smiled. "I haven't broken any laws, sheriff. A man's business is his own, especially in his own home with his own wife. There's not a damn thing you can do about that." He took a step towards John, stopped. Added with a salacious leer, "In fact I could fuck her into next week and there's not a damn thing you could do about that, now is there?"

John smiled. It was a cold, cold smile. His green eyes glittered like ice. His heart was pounding, but the rest of him was calm, so calm. Contained. Collected. "There's one thing."

It was fast. A blur of motion, even as Sumner realized too late and clumsily began to go for his gun. His fingers hadn't even touched the hilt of his pistol as John grabbed his Colt, drew it out and spun it, cocked back the safety, aimed and fired.

It only took mere seconds.

The single shot killed Sumner instantly.


	5. Chapter 5

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho5

Morning light streamed into the bedroom. It was filtered through the muslin curtains, shading the yellow rays to a lilac color as the light streamed along the floor, the bed, and finally the bare shoulder of John Sheppard it protruded from the blankets. The light softly illumined his face as he slept, lovingly caressing his handsome profile as he snored softly into the pillow. His dark hair was disordered, wild. His long lashes were dark against his skin, except where his stubble was a dark growth along his jaw and chin.

Moira stirred as the light woke her. She scooted, scooted a little to gaze upon John as their naked bodies were entwined under the blankets. Resting at last from the passion of the evening. She touched his bare chest, letting her fingers slide along the dark chest hair, past a scar along his collarbone. She knew it was wrong but she didn't care. She didn't care in this moment, in every moment they spent together, especially like this. Moira had never known a man could be so very gentle, yet so very passionate.

Reluctant to leave the cozy warmth of the bed and his body she sighed, scooting free of his embrace and sitting to view the room. It was quiet. Familiar, yet colored in a warmth and a security it had never known until now. Until John. She lightly kissed his cheek, slid out of the bed and began her morning oblations as he slept, oblivious.

John woke to a pleasant humming sound, some Irish tune he couldn't quite place. It didn't help that the humming was off-key. It only made him smile as he stretched out in the bed. He yawned, blinking against the sunlight that was determinedly making its way into the room past the curtains. He sat, rubbing his eyes. He scratched his head, thinking. Thinking of Moira and their infrequent yet passionate nights. Thinking of their careful regard during the day if they happened to run into each other. It was what the townsfolk expected, this coldness and tolerable civility between them, but John was tired of it. He was tired of obeying the social mores that were in effect even out here, out West, in a settlement that wasn't quite a town, not quite yet.

He got out of the bed, stretching and moving languidly to the side room where a basin of water waited for him, where a few steps beyond lay the water closet, a new-fangled addition to the house that John welcomed on these brisk, cold mornings. He made himself presentable, pausing to eye the large tub longingly. It was a fancy fixture with clawed feet that kept it off the cold floor. He could imagine stretching out in it, as much as his long legs would allow, that is, and soaking in hot, hot water. He imagined Moira with him and a smirk formed on his lips.

Moira heard the distinctive clomp and jingle of his steps and smiled as she sat at the little table in the front room. She was going over correspondence, reviewing what words she had exchanged with Doctor McKay before meeting him later for the real reason of his visit.

John entered the room, hooking his thumbs into his belt as he studied her. She was clad in black, as always, trapped in the conventions of mourning attire and would be for some time. He scowled at the thought. Her long hair was caught in a bun but strands were slipping loose. "Can a man get a cup of coffee this morning?"

Moira smiled, looked over at him. He had on his clothes from the previous evening and the dark gray shirt and darker pants were even more rumpled. "Of course he can. If he makes his way to the restaurant in town." She laughed at his scowl, moved to her feet. "Sit. I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast too?"

John smiled and followed her into the kitchen. Already the water was heated on the stove. Cups were just waiting to be filled as she ground the beans into a finer mixture. "Absolutely, ma'am. If you have the time, that is." He sat at the table, watching her. "I suppose you'll be meeting with that fancy man today."

She laughed softly. "Yes. Once he finishes his business in town." She poured the hot water, turned and set the cup in front of him. "I wish you could be with us when I show him the thing. But you can't be."

John took a sip. Another. He met her serious gaze. "I know. Moira, I've been thinkin'"

"You have? Will wonders ever cease?" She smiled at his playful scowl.

"Amusing, very. Sit, please. I've been thinking about this."

Moira took the seat opposite him. She clasped her hands on the table in front of her, waiting. "About what? The coffee?" she teased, but he appeared serious. "John? John, are you, that is to say, are you ready to to to to move on or—"

He touched her clasped hands, reaching across the table. "No. Nothing like that, Moira."

She visibly relaxed. "Then what?"

He stood suddenly. "I should be headin' out before the day starts." He moved to the front room. He pulled on his duster. He placed his hat firmly on his head. Adjusted his gun belt and felt the solid weight of his Colt at his thigh.

Moira followed after him. She touched his arm. "John? Is there something wrong?"

He met her gaze. Pulled her into his arms and kissed her. "Nah. I jes want to be with you, Moira. Just like this. Not like two thieves in the night but as a respectable couple."

"Oh. Well, Mr. Sheppard, you know we cannot do that. Not yet, anyway, I mean I am still officially in mourning and since you're the one who placed me there, thank God, it wouldn't be seemly if we were seen to be anything but barely civil to each other."

"Don't care."

"What?"

He kissed her again. "I'm tired of it, Moira. Think on it, will you? I'll be by later this evening after your fancy man has examined the thing." He freed her. Swatted her rear.

"John!"

He smiled. "Pert little bustle, finest in the state, I swear. Good mornin' to ya, ma'am." He tipped his hat, left the house.

"Good morning to you, sheriff," she replied, shaking her head.

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"Well, no wonder this isn't working." Rodney was squatting on the floor, examining the wires that protruded from the telegraph machine, a mess of copper tubing and assorted mechanical bits that were all going haywire. "With this new updated system you won't have to rely on such antiquated equipment. The new electrical systems will speed up your machine tremendously, once the lines are strung. A signaling telegram system like this requires an operator to make and break the electrical contact with this telegraph key, which is broken but I have a replacement." He looked over at the post mistress who was watching him with a smile, her auburn hair peeking out of her pretty pale yellow bonnet. "Mrs…"

"Miss, actually, Mr. McKay."

"Miss Actually? That's a rather odd name."

Katie Brown smiled at him. She had never encountered a city man. At least not one so dapper yet so clumsy as this one. "Katie Brown," she informed. "Oh! I'm sorry! It's Doctor McKay, isn't it? I do apologize."

Rodney smiled. "No need. How did you know?"

"Word gets round. Small town. Mr. Grodin is our telegraph operator, until the machine stopped working, that is, and he is currently training a younger man to take his place. He plans to go to California to make his fortune in the gold mines as he is becoming hard of hearing."

"Ah. Of course. One must be quite audibly endowed to hear the signals at the other end which are produced by a telegraph sounder. And then to interpret them and to transcribe them requires a personage of intelligence and education. Allow me to attend to this. You know," he continued talking as he worked, "I believe that in time these telegraph machines will be obsolete. Mr. Edison is doing some marvelous work with electricity and sound waves, and Mr. Tesla has all sorts of notions about fundamental laws of mathematics and geometry which I find fascinating. I do believe that given time we will have motorized vehicles that will render the train all but obsolete."

"Really? That all sounds quite fantastical, Doctor McKay."

"It does, like something out of Jules Verne, I know." He smiled, meeting her gaze. "Have you read Mr. Verne? I find his tales quite inspiring. Flying machines," he enthused with a soft, faraway expression. He moved to his feet suddenly. "Why he has even postulated a trip to the moon. Imagine how wondrous that would be!"

"Mr. McKay, have you finished here or are you engaged on more personal business?" Carson smiled at Katie as she blushed. Rodney fumbled and flustered.

"No! I mean, yes. I mean I am almost finished here. This wasn't worth the horrendous trip out here. Although I suppose that no one is qualified to fix this kind of machine out here. Doctor Beckett, I still need to see the deputy and make an official report about the loss of my watch and the loss of my—"

"An official report? You're not in Chicago, Mr. McKay. You can inform the deputy about what happened to you on our way."

"It's Doctor McKay, and I would appreciate it if my valid concerns were treated with more respect and gravity. I know very well I am not in Chicago but in some cow town, some Podunk establishment that is only here as a way station for travelers and not even a proper town with proper townsfolk and proper law enforcement!" He looked at Katie as she was staring at him. He gulped. "I do apologize, ma'am."

Katie frowned. "I suggest you finish fixin' our machine and then take your leave, Mr. McKay."

Rodney sheepishly bowed his head and did just that.


	6. Chapter 6

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho6

The wind whistled It was a low sound, almost like a cough in the scrub. Upon Cemetery Hill it kicked up dust clouds and swirled around the leaning tombstones. They were simple stone structures, words carved into them that were eventually rendered illegible by the elements. A few graves only bore wooden crosses with initials. A wreath of flowers long since dead adorned one grave. The dry yellow petals were being scattered by the wind.

The wind whipped at Moira's black skirts, at the black ribbons in her black bonnet. She stood, stoic, expression neutral as at last the graveyard was emptying of mourners and grave diggers and the clergy. She silently accepted the condolences, the sympathy from the women and the stern regard of the men. The doleful faces of other widows and the sour glances of old men who were waiting to head back to town to begin the gossip, the speculation, the acrimony.

She allowed a moment's respite as Carson stepped to her. He smiled, his blue eyes full of kindness, of sympathy, not for her loss but for the bruises still marring her face. "Mrs. Sumner. Do not hesitate to see me if you need anything for the pain or any other discomfort due to your injuries. Or if anything else is troubling you."

"Thank you, Doctor Beckett."

"Moira!" Katie hugged her, stepped back to view her. "I am so sorry! This must be difficult for you! If you need anything, anything only say the word. We'll have a decent supper for you when you get back home, and some leftovers to keep you for a while."

"Thank you, Katie."

"Mrs. Sumner." Deputy Evan Lorne tipped his hat, his gaze skimming over her face, over the bruises that even the black veil could not conceal. "I won't presume to know how you feel about this, but I think I can fairly say that it was a necessary act to ensure your safety, if nothing else."

Moira nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Lorne."

"Shall we?" He offered his arm. "I should like to escort you back home now, if I may."

"Thank you, Mr. Lorne. That is most kind of you." They began to walk across the cemetery. "I do believe you are more interested in the buffet that will be served at my home than my personal welfare," she gently teased.

"Of course not, Mrs. Sumner!" he exclaimed, pretending to be outraged, but both briefly smiled. They had always been on friendly terms. "I must admit I have a particular predilection for berry pie, especially if baked by Mrs. McGregor. She is an excellent cook."

Moira smiled. "I am certain there will be berry pie, Mr. Lorne, have no worries about that." She glanced round. She thought she had seen someone lurking outside the gates of the cemetery, a long, lean form of a man but there was no one, and she realized that it wouldn't be prudent for the sheriff to be seen anywhere near the funeral.

"I can understand if you had ill feelings towards the sheriff," Evan stated, as if guessing her thoughts, her concerns. "He's always been rather hotheaded, and one thing he will not abide is violence of any kind towards women. I feel the same. I'm sorry it had to come to this, however. I can't understand why he didn't just arrest your husband, but what's done is done."

"Yes." Moira didn't know what to say, so she kept silent. Her heart was racing as if plagued with a guilty secret, a guilty knowledge that the deputy lacked. The sheer relief of being free of her husband was drowned by what was expected, what was proper.

"Just so, just so," he said quietly, leading her to the carriage that would transport them to her house.

"How do you judge the mood of the townsfolk?" she asked quietly.

"Mixed at best. Give it time. Give it time," Evan advised, helping her up into the wagon. He moved next to her, took the reins and clicked his teeth. The bay horse began to trot down the road, raising little clouds of dust.

Moira glanced back at the cemetery as it grew smaller, smaller. She adjusted her bonnet as the black ribbons whipped round her head. As they descended the hill the graveyard seemed to rise above them. Growing in stature but shrinking in size. As if it was bulging with its newest occupant. The thought made her shiver and she turned away to view the horse in front of them. "I didn't mean to cause any, any trouble."

"You didn't. Don't think that, Mrs. Sumner. 'Tweren't your doin' but Sheppard's. And Sumner's if truth be known."

"I…" She didn't know what to say. She felt guilty. She knew it was her fault, the way that John had reacted. The way she had implied that her husband was capable of doing worse, much worse, and that John had understood the message all too clearly. She knew he would react to that in only one way. Only one way. And he had.

She sighed and fell silent again, folding her hands in her lap.

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John downed the whisky. He poured himself another glass, sat back and set the bottle on the table. The saloon was darky, dusty, warm on this windy afternoon. A few men were drinking, talking, giving him a wide berth which suited the sheriff just fine. He brooded, eying the amber liquid before downing it and feeling the burn all the way to his toes. He poured himself another glass and licked his lips.

He didn't feel bad over what he had done. Quite the contrary. It wasn't the first time he had killed a man, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. He had felt a grim satisfaction at killing Sumner. At watching the man die after imparting such insulting and hateful words about Moira to him. The last words he would ever say, as it turned out, and that suited John just fine.

Moira was safe now, and that was all that mattered.

"John!" A woman suddenly plopped into his lap, straddling his thighs. She was pretty, with dark curls and a very revealing red and black corset and skirts that offered him generous views of her creamy skin and figure. She smiled. Freckles dappled her nose and cheekbones.

"Lizzie, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he drawled, touching her thighs to balance her as she slightly swayed. He wondered if she was drunk or just a little tipsy.

"You won't be owing this night, sheriff." She smiled. Her lips were two painted carmine enticements only inches from his mouth as she slid her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer onto his lap and closer to increasingly dangerous territory. "We heard what you done. What you done for the schoolmarm."

"I only did what was right. I'd do it for any woman," John deflected. He glanced past her to his drink but couldn't reach it with the obstacle of female flesh in his way.

"We know that. It makes us girls feel protected too, John. You'd protect us same as you'd protect proper womenfolk, wouldn't ya?" At his nod she smiled. "I'll only charge you half for a poke if you wanna go upstairs for entertainment." She smiled, leaning to kiss him.

John smiled, arm sliding past to grab his drink and down it in two long swallows. "You don't say?"

"I do say." She gyrated on his lap, smiling. She took the glass from him, set it on the table behind her, determined to garner his full attention. She reached up and tipped back his hat so the light would illumine his handsome face and chase away the shadows concealing him. "Are you interested in some female companionship, sheriff? At half price, mind."

"You were always a negotiator, Lizzie," John observed, amused at her business acumen but he gently moved the woman off his lap and scooted closer to the table to refill his glass. "Sorry, but the only company I want this evening is to be found in this bottle."

"I see." She stood, hands on her hips, but John's attention was on the bottle again. "Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me." She sighed, headed for the bar to ply other customers.

John smirked, shrugged and refilled his glass once more. He knew he should pace himself, for he did indeed have one more call to make that evening before he could settle in and drink properly. Before he could bed down for the night on a bunk in the back of the jail where he currently resided he had one more task to complete. It wasn't much but it was home, of sorts for him. He would deal with the aftermath of the shooting later, although he didn't expect much from the townsfolk or from the bank where Sumner had been the boss. John knew he should stop drinking and get on his way.

Nevertheless he downed another glass.


	7. Chapter 7

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho7

It was an odd gathering in Doc Beckett's office, in the back away from the receiving room. It wasn't improper or scandalous, just odd, the foursome of three men and a woman meeting with almost secretive caution. Rodney stood at the table, waiting, impatient with curiosity. He glanced at his companions. Deputy Lorne seemed calm, not at all concerned as he stood watching Mrs. Sumner. The widow was clasping her hands in front of her, appearing worried but also expectant as Doctor Beckett retrieved a box from a locked cabinet full of sundry medications and other interesting specimens in glass jars.

"Is there a reason you kept it here, as opposed to the more secure location of the bank?" Rodney asked as Carson carried the box to the table.

"Yes. Too many questions would have been asked," Moira answered.

"We thought about sending it on to a museum or somethin' but Mrs. Sumner decided that would be too risky," Evan explained, gaze on the scientist now.

"That was wise thinking. You can't be too careful these days," Rodney agreed. He eyed the wooden box. "Are you going to open it?"

"Yes, I was about to do just that," Carson replied, shaking his head. He produced a key from his vest pocket and turned it in the lock. After a few clicks he opened the box and turned it for Rodney to see the contents.

A small rectangular device was alone in the wooden compartment. It was white, with a curious screen that looked like glass but wasn't. A series of buttons ran along its smooth surface. Rodney smiled.

"You're not surprised at all," Moira noted.

"You've seen something like this before," Carson accused.

"What the hell is it?" Evan asked. "Pardon my language, ma'am."

"I don't know. That is to say I have seen something similar but as of yet I have no idea what the contraption could be. Yet. I do, of course, have a few theories." He lifted it and turned it over in his hand. Hearing the reactions he met their gazes, nodded. "Yes. It doesn't react to me."

"That's the very strange thing, Mr, er, Doctor McKay. When each of us held the thing it reacted, as if an electrical current had gone through the device. Yet the farmhands who found it could touch it and nothing happened," Moira explained.

"I suspect it is sensitive to something in the blood, some cell that only certain people have and others do not," Carson explained.

"Interesting theory, doctor," Rodney murmured. "for an almost science and a medical professional. If you wouldn't mind?" He handed the device to Moira as Carson scowled at the other man's derision.

She took it. Instantly the thing beeped and lights became illumined on the screen. Four dots appeared on it, dimmer ones on the edges. She turned the screen so all could see. "What do you think it is, Doctor McKay?"

"What I find interestin' is those four dots. There are four of us in this very room. Think that's some kind of, oh, I dunno, a recorder of some kind?"

"That is my theory, deputy," Rodney said, impressed by the younger man's perception. "I believe this thing can somehow detect people and reveal their proximity. What I find more interesting, however, is how it works. What kind of power source can something so small contain, and seemingly be endless? If I may?"

Moira handed it back to him. The images remained but faded slowly. Rodney turned it round and round. "I do not see any indication of a panel, or wiring, but to be absolutely sure I would have to open it up and see what is inside of it."

"And you say you've seen something like this before? May I ask where?" Carson inquired.

"One was found in the back country of Colorado. Most curious. Before I could begin a proper investigation it was taken from me by government officials. When I gleaned of the possibility of another one being found here by Mrs. Sumner I was most anxious to get here and conduct a proper examination of the thing."

"What I find interesting is the way it responds only to certain people. As if there was something in their touch, in their circulatory system that activated the machine. I have never heard of any machine operating solely upon a biological trigger. Have you?"

"No, Doctor Beckett, I have not. What could possibly be in the blood to trigger it?"

"I have no idea. We do know that certain diseases and disorders can be carried in the blood, in the cells, and of course inheritance plays a factor as well. The human body is a machine all on its own, comprised of millions of cells that we are only beginning now to understand."

"So what would be the purpose of such a thing? To locate people and only work when touched by certain individuals?" Moira wondered.

"And how did it get here? And who made it? This is something beyond anything we have now," Evan noted, frowning. "If I hadn't of seen it myself I wouldn't believe it."

"Nor would I," Rodney agreed. "It is clearly of an advanced design, but the most curious thing is that it is not unique. Rare but not unique. Logically we know that it cannot be from the past, as it is beyond our ancestors and their limited capabilities."

All stared at the scientist. Finally Moira spoke, her voice soft, hushed by disbelief. "Doctor McKay, are you suggesting that this thing is of the future?"

Rodney met her gaze. "Yes, Mrs. Sumner. That is exactly what I am suggesting."

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A man cleared his throat. He cleared it again. John smiled as he sat at his desk in the sheriff's office, head bent over a paper. He ignored the noise, waiting for whomever it was interrupting him to speak. He perused the headlines, the report of a stagecoach robbery, the report of the advancement of the railroad, pretending to be absorbed.

The man cleared his throat one more time. It was a louder, hacking sound. Finally his voice emerged, thin, yet clearly educated and stern. "Sherrif? I was given to believe that you are Sheriff Sheppard, the law in town?"

John schooled his expression and looked up to view the speaker. The man was balding, a city slicker clad in a more outlandish suit that the McKay fella had. A pair of spectacles was perched on his nose, making him appear serious, authoritative. "Yeah, that's me."

"Mr. Richard Woolsey from the Pinkerton Detective Agency."

"Ah."

Richard waited, but John said nothing else. In fact he returned to reading his paper. "Mr. Sheppard, I am here on a dire matter! I need to know the whereabouts of one Mr. Rodney McKay. I believe that he recently arrived in this town."

John met his gaze again. "That he did. I was led to believe he is called Doctor McKay."

"Yes, he is, rather that is how he styles himself and yes he does have a doctorate even if is from Canada but that isn't the issue here, sir. The issue is I need to find him. The government believes he is in possession or will be in possession of an artifact that needs to be secured. It's a matter of national security."

John stood suddenly, so quickly his chair scratched on the floor. He towered over the other man and the Pinkerton took a step backwards. "Is that so?"

Richard nodded, glad that he finally gotten the sheriff's interest. "Yes, that it is, sir. Do not misinterpret my words. Mr. McKay isn't a criminal or anything, and he is hardly a danger to anyone except himself. Nevertheless my orders are to find him and to secure the object. You are probably wondering why the government didn't send its own man. Well, this needs to be a low-key affair, and as there is no danger involved whatsoever it was thought best to allow the Pinkerton Agency to handle it. If you would be so kind as to direct me to where I may find Mr. McKay I would be grateful."

John circled round the desk, his boots clomping on the wood. He set his hat on his head. "I'll do you one better than that, Mr. Woolsey. I will take you there myself."


	8. Chapter 8

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho8

Darkness swallowed the land as night fell. The blackness encompassed the low fields, the distant mountains. Only a few flickering lights indicated the way station and the businesses that had grown up around it existed. Kerosene lamps let a warm glow to the windows of the house, marking it as an island of civilization in the sea of utter darkness. The desert was active, however. Night creatures crawled out of their burrows and dens to partake of the coolness and the relative safety of the evening hours.

The house was quiet. Cold. Moira walked through it, back and forth, round and round, unable to settle. Devoid of all the well-wishers and gossips and sympathizers she was alone. She debated cranking up the phonograph, if only to break the heavy silence with some scratchy music. Instead she moved to the small piano and stroked the keys.

There was a half moon rising in the black sky, casting an opalescent glow along the shadows as John Sheppard rode his horse up the road. A coyote howled in the distance, a lone, mournful call but it was the faint sound of piano music that drew him. The sky was spangled with stars, hundreds of them shedding a twinkling luminescence on the desert sands. John tugged on the reins to slow the animal under him as he reached the house.

The music was louder now. Lamplight beckoned from the curtained windows. John smiled. He guided his horse to the porch rail and smoothly dismounted. He patted the animal. "Easy now, Jumper. I'll be stayin' a spell but we can't be presumin' just yet." He wrapped the reins around the porch rail, and climbed the steps to the front door.

He hesitated. He lifted his hat to run a hand through his wayward hair. He restored his hat, and smoothed down his clothes. He adjusted his gun belt. He shifted his stance, knocking the dirt off his boots. Finally he licked his lips and knocked on the door.

Moira was lost in the music, the sways and swells of the melody as her fingers nimbly played upon the keys of the piano and at first she didn't hear the interruption until it sounded again. The brisk knock at the front door startling. She froze, fearing for a moment that Sumner had come back to life to haunt her and to exact terrible retribution for his death. But she shook off the folly and stood. She moved to the door.

John heard the cessation of music and waited. He glanced round, but only darkness surrounded him and only his horse would bear witness to his foolishness. He looked back as the door opened on creaking hinges. "Ma'am. May I?" He doffed his hat.

Moira stared, her mouth falling open before she nodded and stepped aside for him to enter the house. John had donned his best attire, a black shirt and a string tie. A black vest with some gray ticking on it that matched his pants and his boots had been polished but were still dusty from the desert. He entered the house and paused, looking round, locating the piano as he set his hat on a peg on the wall. He removed his long black duster and hung it there as well. Moira shut the door, still staring. His gun belt was slung low on his hips, inevitably drawing the eyes to the lower regions of his anatomy, especially when he turned to look at her.

"Chopin?"

She smiled a moment, charmed by his knowledge and the way he tilted his head, quirked a brow and softly smiled at her. "Yes. You surprise me, Sheriff Sheppard. May I know the reason for this visit, at such an hour?"

"You may. I…I came to pay my respects." He eyed his hands a moment. A brief uncertainty caused him to hesitate again. Long lashes veiled his eyes and his perfect, full lips were forming a slight pout.

Moira frowned. "You came to pay your respects to the man you killed?"

"No. I came to pay my respects to you." He looked up, meeting her gaze. "As for the lateness of the hour you know the reason, but I do apologize nonetheless."

Moira turned away from him, staring at nothing. John took the opportunity to allow his gaze to wander all over her. The black dress was severe, but revealed the curves hidden underneath it. Her long brown hair was loose, free of the bun but tied back from her face with a black ribbon John longed to pull to set the tresses flying. "There was no need."

"There was." He stepped to her. "Moira, are you all right?"

A sound escaped her lips, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Am I all right? What do you think, John? Shall I tell you?" She whirled, her skirts making a whispering sound as they brushed his legs. Her brown eyes were full of emotion, emotions that John couldn't decipher. "I am supposed to be in mourning, grieving for the death of my illustrious husband, dead at the hands of the local sheriff, mind, shot dead in the street like a common dog!"

"Mad dogs need to be put down," John muttered, but she continued.

"But if anyone knew the truth I would be ridiculed, reviled and run out of town! Shall I tell you that truth, John?"

"Yup."

She stepped closer. She touched his chest, her hands on his black shirt, feeling his warmth, his strength. "I am all right. No, better than that. Everything is in order. Sumner always was meticulous about the details, so the house is mine and all debts are paid. And his assistant Mr. Everett will be running the bank so there's no worry to be had in that quarter. The truth is I can breathe again."

"Ah. Corset too tight?"

"John!" He smiled. She stepped away from him, circling the table. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Everyone expects me to hate you, or to at least not receive you into my home, to be coldly civil to you if we chance to meet in public, but the truth is I want nothing more than to hug you for taking away the danger that threatened my life and made things…intolerable, at times. I know I should not speak of my husband in such a manner but it is…it is the truth. I tried to be a good wife, I tried…but he…he knew."

"Knew?" John asked quietly, stepping to her as she stopped by the window. She drew aside the curtain to see his horse standing at the porch rail.

"Yes. He knew…suspected and that last night he…we had words. Which led to…this." She touched her bruised cheek. "And would have led to worse if not for you."

"Knew what, exactly?" John asked. He touched her shoulder. Calloused fingers caressing slightly, feeling her tension.

She turned to him, expression somber. She bit her lower lip a moment, uncertain. She freed it to answer softly, "that I harbored, harbored feelings. For you." She stepped away from him and moved to the door. "I do believe you should be on your way, now, sheriff."

"Should I? Moira, it would have led to worse. Much worse. He told me so. He told me himself exactly what he was gonna do to you, and I wouldn't have it. So I shot him. Plain and simple. I won't tolerate that kind of behavior towards a woman, towards any woman. Especially not towards you, Moira. You should have come to me before it got to this. But I can guarantee you one thing. No man will ever lay a hand in violence upon you again."

Moira was staring at the door, startled and puzzled by his words which almost amounted to an avowal of his feelings towards her. An admission of feelings being of a more tender nature than was proper but which she desired anyway. "You best be going now, sheriff."

"Not until I get my hug."

She smiled. She turned to see him watching her, expression serious but warmth shone in his brilliant green eyes. The kerosene lamp threw his long shadow onto the wall, cutting his profile in sharp relief against the flowered wallpaper. "John, that would be inappropriate."

"You offered, Moira. As for anything inappropriate, it's jes us, ain't it?"

She moved to him. "Yes, John, it's jes us," she gently teased, causing a scowl to appear on his handsome face as he perceived her mockery. She smiled and suddenly hugged him. She pressed her body to his, arms around his shoulders, his neck. "John."

John smiled, returning the hug as he pulled her and kept her close. "Moira."

His voice was low, possessive and sent a shiver through her. It was not a shiver of fear, however, but one of anticipation, of sensuality. She drew back slowly, enjoying the feel of his long, lean, hard body. The sense of security and safety intoxicating.

John pulled her into a kiss. It was sudden, vivid. His mouth capturing hers and wooing, cajoling her lips to part so his tongue could dive, could play as he guided her body into a perfect alignment with his, as perfect as it could be given they were standing and now she was squirming deliciously against him.

Moira shoved even as she eagerly melted into the kiss, into his arms, feeling his sensual interest unless his gun had somehow shifted to the front. She felt dizzy at the feel of those full, perfect, soft lips on hers, at the thrusting of his tongue, at the scratching of his stubble on her skin. At the way his hands were wandering along her back now, fingers tangling in her hair. His chest was pressing against her breasts, rubbing her body with obvious intentions. She pushed and stepped away from him, gasping for air, face flushed, emotions flustered.

John smiled at her. He licked his lips. He took his hat off the peg and placed it on his head. He took his duster and pulled it on, tugging it around him to fend off the chill of the evening although his body was hot right now. "You're right. I best be goin' now, Moira. Now that we've reached an understandin'." He opened the door, stepped out onto the porch. Tipped his hat to her. "Ma'am. A good evenin' to ya."

Moira nodded, standing at the door. His kiss was still on her lips, the taste of him lingering in her mouth, a taste of whiskey and John and desire that was enthralling, vital. "Good evening to you, Mr. Sheppard."

He smiled. Mounted his horse and urged the animal into a canter. Moonlight spangled on his silver spurs as he disappeared into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho9

The clomping of boots and the jingle of spurs alerted Moira first. She softly swore, startling the men. She grabbed the thing and placed it in the box, slammed it shut and whirled. Before any of the men could question her actions the sheriff and a stranger entered the room unannounced. "Sheriff Sheppard. To what do we owe this unexpected visit?" she asked coldly.

John tipped his hat towards her. "Ma'am. Doc Beckett, Deputy Lorne. This here is Mr. Richard Woolsey. He's a Pinkerton who's been asking after your McKay fella."

"You!" Rodney pointed at the dapper man. "You were the one following me! On the train out of Chicago and then the—"

"Yes, Mr. McKay."

"That's Doctor McKay," corrected Carson, "and what business does a Pinkerton have with a scientist?"

"I think we know the reason for my visit. Certainly you do, Doctor McKay. Hand it over, please, or do we really want a repetition of the events in Colorado?"

All eyed Rodney. He frowned. Gulped. "No of course not! Whatever you are claiming to demand of me is not mine to give. I am merely a consultant."

"He took the one in Colorado?" Evan asked, hand sliding to his gun but a look from John stilled the action.

"Yes, he did. Government agent or no I will not cooperate with you and your henchmen! Do you not realize the scientific import of this thing, the significance of such a machine that is years, years, sir, ahead of us? Of course you do or your bosses do and that is why you wish to confiscate it from us," he answered his own question, "but without science to exam it what will happen? Shall I tell you? It will lie dormant in some secret vault for years and be all but forgotten and I will not have that, sir I will not have that at all! What's more were you aware that nearly everyone in this room can operate the device while you, sir cannot?"

"Dangnabbit, he really didn't need to know that," Evan muttered.

"You cannot have it." Moira stepped so she blocked the box from view. She ignored John's admonishing gaze. "I am sorry, sir, but this is private property and you just can't confiscate it."

"Yes!" Rodney agreed.

Carson moved to stand next to Moira. "It was found on her farm so it is her property and that is the law," the doctor agreed. "Wouldn't a Pinkerton be better serving the community by going after real criminals? Such as the men who robbed Doctor McKay, for instance?"

"There's a thought," Evan agreed.

"I do believe that is the sheriff's jurisdiction. This is mine. Sheriff?"

All gazes swung to John. "Hand it over," he said.

"What?" Rodney exclaimed.

"What?" Carson asked.

"What?" Evan stated.

"What?" Moira snapped.

John tried not to smirk. "I said hand it over." He met Moira's gaze. "Now."

"No! You can't! We have to learn more about this! I have to learn more about this!" Rodney insisted.

"It's none of his business, sheriff, you know that! Why the machine reacts most strongly to you!" Carson argued.

"This man has no official warrant for it!" Evan noted.

"I am not giving it to him and that is final!" Moira declared.

"He has. A warrant." John produced a paper from his vest, showed them. "I don't want no trouble over this, mind? I don't cotton to the government jes takin' stuff but that thing is more trouble than it's worth. So hand it over now, Mrs. Sumner, or I will have Deputy Lorne remove it from your possession."

"Thank you, Mr. Sheppard." Richard held out his hands expectantly.

Evan sighed and turned to Moira. "Sorry, Mrs. Sumner. The law."

She shook her head, but stepped aside, glaring at John who shrugged. Carson frowned at the injustice of it all. Rodney was livid, trying not to shout as once more his efforts were thwarted once again. Evan opened the box, removed the device. It came to life in his hand as he gave it over to Richard.

"Thank you. This thing has no place here. We will have our best scientists study it and they will determine what it is, how it works, and the proper usage for such an unusual machine."

"No you won't, because your scientists don't have an inkling of what that is and what it can do!" Rodney fumed.

"And you do?"

"Yes, I do! Furthermore you will bury it in some vault and forget all about it, but I will not, sir! I will not forget and nor will these good people! I will get to the bottom of this machine and astound you all with my discoveries!" He turned to Moira. "I am sorry it had to end like this, Mrs. Sumner. I hope we can continue our correspondence."

"I would like that very much, Doctor McKay. I am sorry it had to end this way as well." She glared at John again. "If you gentlemen and Sheriff Sheppard would excuse me." She moved past the men, pausing to glare at John. He merely smiled at her.

"That was untoward, sheriff! I don't care what kind of warrant that man has, he just cannot—" Carson protested.

"He can and he has and there's an end to it. Mr. Woolsey, you got what you wanted so you best be leavin' town. Mr. McKay, I suggest you do the same. Deputy with me."

"You're going to regret this, Sheppard!" Rodney called after him, fearless. "If not today then surely tomorrow! If not tomorrow then surely years from now! You just threw away a chance to make a mark on this town! You just threw away scientific advancement! You just threw—"

"I'll be tossin' a lemon at ya if you don't quit so shut it!" John called after his shoulder.

Rodney fell silent. He glanced at Carson. "How did he know I am allergic to citrus?"

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"I suppose you'll be wanting this as well? Then take it! Take it!" Moira was furious as she stood in her house. She pointed at the skull on the table, would have lifted it and thrown at the lawmen standing on the opposite side of the table if not for the fossil's uniqueness.

"No."

"No? How could let this happen, John? How could you—"

"Two reasons, Moira. No, three." He stepped round to catch her hands, to guide her to sit next to him on the settee. "Firstly, the warrant was perfectly legal, and if I hadn't have complied the law would have been down here at full force. Plus it was signed by General O'Neill, whom I served under during the War, and I trust him. I may not like that Pinkerton fella but I trust the general."

She frowned. "Secondly?"

"Secondly that thing is more trouble than it's worth. Do we really want to maintain possession of it when we don't even know what the heck it is or what it does? And I know that somehow it is connected to that thing, the skull." He glanced at it.

"Just because they were found together that doesn't mean—"

"Don't it? They are connected, Moira, and we may not understand it now, we may never understand it but someone will sometime. In the future, I reckon, when science is more advanced as Mr. McKay proposed. So with that thing gone we bury this skull and let some other fool dig it up in a century or two and see what they can make of it. It's best buried and gone, Moira. Surely you can see that, can't you?"

Moira considered, still frowning. Her hands were warm in his, enclosed by his long fingers. "I suppose you are right…it will only rile the town if they see this. Since it appears so close to being human, but those long teeth and the number of them suggest otherwise. If that machine was of the future perhaps that skull is too…instead of being from a long-distant past."

"Perhaps. I don' t know, Moira. All I know is we gotta be careful in this. Things that are beyond our comprehension tend to be downright problematical, don't they? And that's the last thing we need, is any undue attention, right? Sweetheart?"

She met his gaze, smiling at his endearment despite the argument. "I guess. For now. Until things die down and until Doctor McKay sends any word of his discoveries. You are one stubborn man, Mr. Sheppard."

He smiled. "That I am, Moira." He stretched, sitting back and sliding his arm around her, drawing her close. "Now let's sit a spell and you can tell me all about this newfangled evolutionary theory of yours."

Moira smiled. "It's Mr. Charles Darwin's actually, and it's the theory of evolution."

"Whatever." John sat back, getting comfortable as she began to talk.

THE END


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